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Minho shut the trapdoor with a snap, just in time to seal out the sound of approaching Grievers. Darkness, true, pitch black darkness, enveloped them, and Newt held his breath as he waited. Seconds, minutes ticked by, with no sound but the barest of breaths coming from him and his companion. That, and the distant, muffled drone of the Grievers.
After a while, when there was no earsplitting sound of ripping, splintering wood above, he felt Minho shift, braced himself on the stairs as the Runner pressed against him as he turned.
“Light,” Minho said, his voice a whisper and yet too loud in the room.
It only took a few seconds of fumbling before Newt found the string that activated the light. He pulled, and had to squint. The light wasn’t bright, but after being buried in darkness for too long, it was murder on his eyes.
“Shuck,” Minho said, slipping past Newt and shrugging off his Runner’s pack. He’d only just returned, had spent days keeping himself and the other Runners busy exploring the Maze, even while the Grievers visited them every evening. Even while Tommy sat locked in the Slammer or lying in bed, his body weak and struggling in the throes of the Changing.
Minho tossed the pack on one of the paper covered tables without care, and it made a loud thump as it landed.
“Careful,” Newt said with a hiss, eyes glancing at the door above him, half expecting a Griever to mosey its way in. “We should be quiet.”
“Why?” Minho said. “Not like the shuckin’ creators don’t know we’re here. If they want us, then…”
Minho’s voice trailed off as he made a slicing motion across his throat. Newt rolled his eyes at the Asian boy’s gesture, but followed him down the stairs.
With all the traffic the weapon’s room had endured over the last few days, it didn’t smell as musty as it used to, but there was still a persistent odor of dust, mold, and rusty metal. Newt never liked it down here. Being surrounded by weapons made him feel more uneasy than safe, even if they had rarely used them.
But he was glad the room existed. Its existence, its nature, and the secrecy that Nick insisted it carry was what saved them in the end. They were able to hide the maps, and, because of it, discover the code the Maze had been spelling out for so many years.
The words… something about them set Newt on edge, made an unpleasant shiver crawl up his spine. There was something about those words that just—
“I can hear ya thinking from over here.”
Newt’s gaze snapped up, and he released his lip from between his teeth, surprised to find that he was biting it so long and hard that it had gone numb. He ran his tongue along it, hoping to encourage the blood to return.
“Sorry,” Newt said, shaking his head and walking forward to join Minho. The Runner was perched on one of the tables, crumpled maps beneath him. Newt joined him, crossing his arms and toeing at the dirt floor. “Just…”
He let his voice fade, but knew that a single word would be enough for Minho. It always was.
“Yeah,” the Keeper said. He grabbed his pack and started rummaging around inside. “I’m guessing you prob’ly worked through dinner?”
Newt frowned. If any of the boys had come offering him food that evening, he’d shooed them away without even realizing it. Truth was, between Thomas’s condition, Alby being out of commission, and the entire Glade on the verge of panic, Newt couldn’t remember the last time he ate. Not that he’d felt even remotely hungry the entire time.
He hesitated when a ham and cheese sandwich was shoved under his nose, but took it in the end.
“What about you?” he said after half of it was gone. His body must have been hungry, because he barely chewed, which was fine considering how everything seemed to turn to ashes in his mouth anyway.
“Ate a late lunch in the Maze,” Minho said with a shrug. “Got some apples in here for later, or if you’re still hungry.”
Newt shook his head, scarfing down the last bit of bread. He was sure he could have used more but he wasn’t sure he could actually stomach it.
Newt sighed and laid back on the table, the maps doing little to cushion his head. He closed his eyes, but the light above him just turned everything red. Didn’t exactly make for a restful environment. Not that any place in the Glade was restful anymore.
“It’s too quiet,” he said, eyes snapping open. He sat upright, every fiber of his being even more on edge now. “Haven’t heard a bloody thing since we been down there. Shuck, why aren’t we hearing anything? I should be up there, I should—”
Minho grabbed his wrist. Newt looked away from the light, dots swimming in his vision before clearing to reveal Minho’s concerned frown.
“You need to stop thinking,” Minho said. “Alby can handle it.”
Newt almost voiced his disagreement. They both knew Alby couldn’t handle klunk right now.
“Look, Newt,” Minho said, trailing his hand up Newt’s arm, coming to rest on his shoulder. At the same time, he shifted and moved to sit behind the taller boy. “We’re stuck here, and they’re stuck upstairs. We can’t do a shuck thing to change that.”
The Keeper started rubbing his shoulders, and Newt felt the tension begin to leave his muscles, his head dropping forward as he let out a groan. Newt hated to admit it, but Minho was right. There was nothing he could do.
“I’m actually glad it’s just us,” Minho said, each word punctuated by the tickle of breath over Newt’s ear. Minho nosed aside the long strands of hair and kissed the soft, sensitive skin of Newt’s neck.
Newt snorted, but leaned into the touch.
“You’re insatiable,” he muttered.
“Insatiable?” Minho said, his voice rising in mock offense. The hands left his shoulders, the dark haired boy’s arms winding around his stomach, pulling him back against a strong, warm chest. His lips, soft despite the harsh, grating words that often fell from them, remained on his neck. “Can you even tell me the last time we shucked?”
“Two days ago,” Newt said, vividly recalling the time he spent on his knees in front of Minho in the Gathering hall.
“Doesn’t count,” Minho said. “You didn’t get off.”
“Such a gentleman,” Newt said, then gasped when Minho bit down, as if to prove Newt how wrong he was.
“Just take off your shirt,” Minho said with a growl, fingers gripping the hem of Newt’s t-shirt and yanking it up.
After a few minutes, a bit of maneuvering, and a lot of impatience from Minho, they managed to shed their clothes, baring themselves to the stagnant air of the basement and each other’s eyes.
The first few times it had been embarrassing, the both of them shuffling and blushing as they tried not to look and yet take everything in. Now, however, Newt’s eyes roamed the Runner’s muscled body greedily, and he could feel Minho doing the same.
Even in the poor light of the room, it was impossible to pick the feature he most admired on his lover’s body. The smooth, chiseled chest, the firm stomach with its trail of coal black hair, the narrow hips and toned ass, or the long, muscled legs that were, undeniably, the fastest in the Glade.
Newt was lucky. He got it all in one package, wrapped in beautiful, flawless olive skin and topped with a smile that made his knees weak.
Minho stepped closer, backing Newt into the table until he sat again, then slid in between his knees. Their eyes met for a brief second before he closed the gap, sealing their lips together in a kiss.
Kissing Minho wasn’t as predictable as most would assume. It wasn’t always fire and heat and passion, a frenzy of tongues and lips and teeth, quickly swallowed breaths before diving into the next battle. No, often it was sweet, tender, gentle, like now. The soft brush of lips, the tilt of a chin, the slow, almost agonizing way he used his tongue to coax Newt’s mouth open. Nothing at all like one would expect from the fiery, aggressive Runner.
And yet, somehow, for Newt at least, this contrast, this side by side existence of two seemingly contrary forces, couldn’t describe Minho any better.
Nails scraped at his hips and pulled him forward, forcing him to moan into Minho’s mouth as their cocks pressed together. Minho rolled their hips as his mouth left Newt’s, trailing wet, sloppy kissing over his jaw and neck.
He let himself become lost to the feeling. Let himself know the warmth of Minho’s body, the taste of his skin, the precise pitch and timbre of his voice as he panted and moaned.
He let himself forget the Glade above them, the entire universe outside of their joining flesh and entwining souls.
By the time they separated long enough for Newt to catch his breath, he was almost dizzy from the intensity of the moment that had just passed. His skin was flushed and sensitive, his cock dripping with precum and so hard it hurt, his neck sporting several impressive bruises that would surely raise a few eyebrows in the morning.
Newt leaned forward to take Minho’s lips again, but the other Glader turned his head, Newt’s lips pressing against his jaw. Then, the hands trailing over his body pushed him back, just enough that they could look at each other.
“You know I love you, right?” Minho said, and the suddenness of the declaration shocked Newt. Minho was not one to voice his feelings so freely, preferring to show them in his actions rather than his words.
“’Course,” Newt said, feeling a smile tug at the corners of his lips. Though the comment was unusual, he enjoyed hearing the words nonetheless. “And I love you, too.”
He made a dive for the Asian boy's lips again and this time Minho let him, their lips melting together as they savored each other’s taste.
It didn’t last nearly long enough before Minho pulled away once more.
“I just…” Minho said, trailing off. He licked his lips and a crease formed between his eyebrows. Newt matched his frown, though more out of concern for the Keeper than anything. “Look, this… we know something’s gonna break, right? We’re making a move soon. So I want this, I mean, if it’s the last time we… the last time we’re together like this, I want it to be special.”
“Every time with you is special, Min.”
“Shuckin’ sap,” Minho muttered, but Newt didn’t miss the way his cheeks flushed. He rolled his eyes and let out a chuckle.
“You’re talkin’ about how ya want it to be bloody special and I’m the sap?”
“Damn right,” Minho said with a snort. After a second of silence, the uneasiness returned to Minho’s features, and his eyes held an insecurity Newt had rarely seen. “Hey…”
“It’s alright,” Newt said. He cupped Minho’s face in his hands, his thumbs petting flushed cheekbones. “I get it.”
He pressed a kiss to Minho’s forehead, then pulled the other boy against him, tangling his fingers into the short strands of hair as they melded together. Soon, the innocent intimacy of the hug was replaced by soft touches, shifting hips, and tongues against skin. Pulses raced and breaths became labored.
Somewhere along the line, Minho’s hand encircled his dick, a loose fist pumping in long, lazy strokes as Newt breathed against his ear, one hand tangled in black hair and the other kneading the firm muscles of his arse. Minho sucked another bruise above Newt’s collarbone, alternating harsh nips of his teeth with soothing swipes of his tongue.
Newt could feel himself getting closer to the edge and reached trembling fingers down to halt Minho’s hand.
“Do you have anything?” he panted into the shorter boy’s ear, voice full of a wanton desperation.
Minho pulled back and gave Newt a sloppy kiss on the mouth before responding.
“Yeah,” he said, placing small, wet kisses over the blond’s jaw. “Got some in my pack.”
“Why’ve you got lube in your bloody running pack?” Newt said. “Should I be worried? Got yourself a pretty little Griever gal on the side?”
“Shank, nasty,” Minho said, a look of disgust on his face. “I don’t think I’m in the mood for this anymore, or ever again.”
Newt snorted, then slapped Minho’s arse, the dark haired man yelping as Newt pushed him toward the discarded bag. He watched as Minho bent at the waist to search through his pack, giving him a full and uncensored view of the Runner’s toned backside.
Items were tossed from the bag in Minho’s frenzied search. A few apples, a pair of sheathed knives, some lengths of cord, several… socks? Newt scrunched up his nose but didn’t ask about it. He wouldn’t be surprised if Minho’s running pack had never been cleaned out, so socks were probably among the least surprising things in it.
Soon, there was a hissed declaration of victory and Minho righted himself, returning to Newt with a small first aid kit. Newt raised an eyebrow but Minho ignored him, popping off the metal lid and letting it fall to the floor with a clang. He rummaged around for a few seconds, knocking bandaids and antiseptic wipes to the ground, then dropped the whole kit to the side when he found what he was after.
He pressed a small tube into Newt’s hand and the blond read it.
“Triple antibiotic ointment?” he said with a glance at Minho.
The Keeper shrugged.
“It’s slick,” he said simply.
Newt couldn’t argue with that.
“How’re we gonna…?” he glanced around at the room. It wasn’t the most comfortable situation to be doing this in, though they’d dealt with less ideal locations in the past. Still, for the sake of his poor leg, Newt always preferred a bed.
“Scoot up on the table more,” Minho said. Newt obeyed, moving until more of his body was supported by the table. He leaned back on his elbows and spread his legs a little in anticipation. However, as soon as Newt settled into place, Minho pushed his legs shut and, in one fluid motion, straddled his thighs.
Oh.
“Ain’t you running tomorrow?” Newt asked. He… shuck, he didn’t have any objections if that’s how Minho wanted it, but he knew first hand that running with a sore arse wasn’t the most pleasant feeling in the world. And they hadn’t done this in long enough that there wasn’t any chance the Runner wouldn’t be sore in the morning.
“What’s that matter? I’ve taken it up the ass the night before running plenty of times,” Minho said. Then he smirked. “Hell, you’ve shucked me the morning of.”
Without waiting for a response from the blond, Minho took the ointment and unscrewed the cap, then grabbed Newt’s hand and squeezed a generous amount of the slippery substance on his fingers.
Newt rubbed his fingers together, shivering at the thought of what was about to happen.
The room wasn’t warm, and neither was the lubricant. He hoped Minho wouldn’t be too uncomfortable, knew that the Runner would never admit it even if he was. Newt wished they had blankets, but he guessed they’d have to make their own heat.
Newt reached his lube coated fingers around, finding the cleft of Minho’s toned arse and, soon after, the soft, puckered skin of his entrance. When his index finger pushed in, Minho’s breath hitched, something a little less than a gasp. His eyes fell closed, black lashes against olive skin, and his fingers tightened on Newt’s shoulders, blunt nails digging just so into his flesh. Newt could picture the red crescents that would still be there in the morning.
Newt used his other hand to pull his lover closer, then ducked his head to kiss his neck. He could feel the rapid beat of Minho’s pulse beneath his lips, silently amazed that he could do things like this to the other’s body.
Fingers found his hair, winding into the long strands as he inserted a second finger.
“Shuck, Newt,” Minho moaned, rocking his hips back on Newt’s digits, his cock rubbing against Newt’s stomach all the while. “C’mon. Another. I want it now.”
Newt could do nothing but oblige his boyfriend’s whims, and plunged another finger inside, twisting his wrist as he went. The angle wasn’t the best, and Newt could tell from the near erratic pivot of his hips that Minho wanted more and was trying to twist his body to get it.
“I thought you wanted it to be special?” Newt whispered against the soft skin just under Minho’s ear. He felt a shudder rip through the other boy’s body, but his hips did slow a bit.
“Special, not slow. Just hurry up,” he said. “I’m ready.”
Newt wanted to protest. When Minho was on the receiving end, he never paid enough mind to foreplay.
But maybe he enjoyed the hint of pain that came with it.
Newt pulled his fingers out and reached for the lube, only to find it already in Minho’s hands. He poured some into his palm, and then his hand was on Newt’s cock, pumping him. It was quick, no easing into it, and Newt couldn’t choke back a moan.
“Shh, baby,” Minho said, though he didn’t cease stroking Newt’s dick. If anything, he picked up the pace, almost imperceptibly tightening his fingers. “The boys’ll think there’s Grievers in the basement.”
“I think they’ve heard us enough to know the difference,” Newt said, then let his teeth latch on to Minho’s earlobe. The dark haired boy murmured his agreement with a content sigh, but then the hand that wasn’t busy bringing Newt closer to the edge found his shoulder and pushed gently.
“Lean back a bit,” Minho said, letting go of Newt’s dick and rising a little straighter, giving Newt more wiggle room. Newt did as commanded, leaning back just enough to give the Asian boy room to crawl forward slightly, until the blond’s cock disappeared between his well muscled thighs, coming to rest against his arse. When Minho was satisfied with the position, he stopped, his dick pressed firmly against Newt’s stomach, beads of precum trailing down the red tip and landing on Newt’s pale skin.
Without warning, Minho kissed him, using his superior angle to tilt Newt’s head back and invade his mouth with his tongue. Newt groaned into the kiss and tightened his hold on the Keeper’s hips, his nails digging in.
Without breaking the kiss, Minho reached behind himself and grabbed Newt’s cock, now slick with lubricant. The Asian boy gave him a few lazy pumps before he shifted and guided the blond’s dick to his entrance.
Tight heat surrounded him. He broke the kiss with a gasp, his head rolled back on his shoulders, and the rest of his body would have followed if it hadn’t been for his hands on Minho’s hips, the Runner’s free hand holding Newt’s shoulder.
A long, agonizing while later, he felt Minho’s ass come to rest on his thighs, the ring of muscle squeezing the base of his dick.
Stillness followed, nothing but the heat of their breaths, the twitch and spasm of muscles unable to contain their excitement. Minho’s eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide in some coalescence of love and lust and need.
Maybe Newt was being a sap, but he felt like, at the moment, he and Minho were truly something more than themselves. Their eyes did not waver, locked together in some kind of wordless, motionless understanding. Their bare chests, slick with sweat, met with each matched inhalation as the heat from their bodies warmed the world around them. They were, indeed, connected in the most carnal of ways, Newt locked deep inside the other boy, feeling every shift and shudder of his body.
And then Minho moved and it became so much more. It wasn’t a big thrust—the position didn’t allow for that without some difficulty—but Newt had to remind himself to breath after Minho pulled up and then bottomed out again, the grip of his hole on Newt’s cock impossibly tight. He half wondered if the dark haired boy was squeezing around him on purpose, but judging from the look of ecstasy on his face and the tremble in his legs, there wasn’t a chance he was able to focus that much.
Minho’s lips pressed against his, wet with his own saliva and a bright red against his skin. Newt’s hands grasped the other boy’s hips firmly, but he didn’t lead. He let Minho set the pace, rolling his hips in short circles, barely rising off of Newt’s cock before grinding down, thrusting forward to rub his own dick between their stomachs.
“Shuck,” Minho said, his voice a breathless whisper against Newt’s lips.
Newt couldn’t even form a verbal reply, too far gone in the act and the sensation of joining his body and soul with Minho’s. Instead, he slid his hands around to grip the Runner’s firm arse, his fingers gliding to the place where their flesh joined together, touching the smooth skin of Minho’s entrance, taut and tight around his hard cock.
He pressed their bodies closer together and started to jerk his hips upward to meet Minho’s gyrations.
“Holy shuckin’ shuck,” Minho said, arching his back as they continued their undulations. He let out a sharp cry, throwing his head back, his hips stilling for a moment before resuming their motion with new vigor. A strangled moan escaped his lips each time Newt’s cock sank into him.
Newt leaned forward, peppering Minho with kisses. Neck, shoulders, chest, any skin he could reach. Lips and tongue, a hickey on his collarbone, a gasp as teeth met nipple. Hands twisted in his hair and pulled, stinging his scalp and yanking him til lips met lips and he swallowed Minho’s breathless moans like they were ambrosia.
Or maybe just air.
“I love you,” he muttered, the words almost lost between panting breaths and touching lips. “I love you like this. Most bloody shuckin’ amazin’ thing.”
“Sap,” Minho said, but Newt felt the smirk against his lips. He mirrored the expression as he used his strength to hoist Minho up, his cock pulling out, exposed to the chill air. Minho made a gasp, then something like a yelp as Newt dug his heels into the surface of the table and smoothly flipped them over.
He opened his eyes, which, at some point, had fallen closed in the pure, delectable feeling of it all. Minho was beneath him, face flushed, lips swollen and dark and parted by heavy breathes to show square white teeth and a wicked tongue. His ink black hair was tousled, heavy and wet with sweat, its usual perfection spoiled by their passion. Marks, scratches and darkening bruises, marred his olive skin.
Most would not disappear before morning, and a part of Newt was elated at that. Despite everything, all the changes that the Glade and its inhabitants had undergone since Thomas’s arrival, despite the uncertainty of what the future held, this was still the same. Minho was, quite visibly, his, and he Minho’s.
Their eyes locked for a time, and they did not need words.
Supporting his body on one arm, he reached down and grasped his own erection, guiding himself into Minho once more. The Asian boy’s eyes squeezed shut and his fingers tightened their hold on Newt’s shoulders, a low moan escaping his lips as he was entered.
As the tightness and the heat enveloped Newt, he groaned and bit his lip, praying for the restraint to make this moment last as long as possible. But as he sank into Minho’s body, he knew that both he and the Keeper were too far gone, and that there was nothing he could do to stop this from ending soon.
He bottomed out, his pelvis coming to meet Minho’s skin. The Asian boy wrapped his legs around Newt’s waist, the ring of muscle wrapped around his dick contracting as the shorter boy moved.
“Shuck,” Minho breathed out, his voice shaking. A hand found Newt’s cheek, and Minho pressed a kiss to the tip of Newt’s nose. “Shuckin’ move.”
As he began moving his hips, he brought his free hand to his mouth, licking a long stripe across his palm and fingers. Then, he took hold of Minho’s dick, wrenching a cry from his lover’s throat.
His thrusts were slow and deliberate, in time with the twists of his wrist, chosen with familiarity to bring the both of them closer to completion. Powerful thighs squeezed his hips as Minho rocked his body in time with Newt’s, rising up to meet his thrusts.
Vaguely, beyond the veil of pleasure, Newt could feel the air of the room cooling his perspiring skin. It was odd, to become so aware of such a mundane sensation in the midst of tactile overload. But Newt clung to the feeling. He latched on to it, savoring the discomfort as a means to pull himself back from the edge.
Minho’s fingers, nails short and blunt, clawed at the skin of Newt’s back and shoulders, leaving long red lines and moon-shaped depressions in their wake. The Asian boy’s eyes were closed tightly, his lips moving in a mixture of moans and curses, of Newt’s name and chants of soclosesoclose, of half suppressed sobs and pleas for just a little faster.
But Newt kept the same slow, excruciating pace, the same down-up-twist of his hand. He knew, from so many nights spent mapping the wonders of Minho’s body, that, if he kept it up long enough, it would all be worth it in the end.
He watched Minho’s face, red with the exertion and emotion. He controlled the pace of his thrusting hips. He focused on the cold bite of the air.
“Newt, please,” Minho said through clenched teeth, his voice raw and guttural.
The blond could no longer deny his lover. He increased the speed of his thrusts, tightened his hand around Minho’s cock, and impelled them both toward release.
Minho came as he was wont to; silent and rigid, the breath stolen from his body by the force of pleasure. Newt’s hips stilled as he felt Minho tighten around him, then he felt the heat of his seed spill across his fingers. Minho stayed rigid like that for a few moments longer, not even breathing, his only movement the spasm of muscles as he rode out his orgasm. Then, all at once, he sucked in a breath of air and his eyes opened.
Comparatively, Newt’s own orgasm hit him by surprise. One moment he was staring into those beautiful brown eyes, the next Minho was moving his hips. It wasn’t much, the Runner limited by his position, pinned between Newt and the table, and yet it was more than enough to, with a few more shallow thrusts, push him over the edge.
He pressed his lips to Minho’s, moaning as bliss swept through his body and he emptied himself deep inside the other boy. Minho tightened around him as he came—and this time, Newt knew it was deliberate—pulling from him all that he could.
It was over too soon.
As the flame that set his nerves alight dulled to an ember, Newt found himself pressed chest to chest with Minho. The arm that had been supporting him had given out in the midst of his climax, and he was laying on Minho now, his nose pressed to the crook of the Runner’s neck and shoulder, calloused hands softly petting his hair.
Newt made to rise up, but Minho held him in place.
“Just stay like this a minute?” he said, his voice a whisper against Newt’s ear.
Wonderful as the prospect was, Newt couldn’t ignore the less pleasant results of their activities.
“If we don’t clean up now, we’ll regret it,” Newt mumbled against Minho’s neck. He lifted his hips, pulling away just enough that his softening cock came free of Minho’s arse, the other boy letting out a sound of complaint.
“Don’t care,” Minho muttered. “That’s future us’s problem.”
“Min…” Newt said, lifting his head up to look at the Asian boy.
Their gazes met, and Newt paused as he took in the look in those dark eyes. It was the same as earlier, that same uncertainty, insecurity, as when Minho told him how he loved him.
He sighed, then laid his head down again, nuzzling Minho’s neck.
“I guess future us can deal with it.”
Minho didn’t say anything in response, but Newt felt, and heard, a contented hum as his hands resumed caressing Newt’s hair, lulling the blond into a peaceful sleep.